


Boredom With a Boo

by just_A_random



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Friendship/Love, Gen, Ghost Sherlock, John is a Good Friend, M/M, Nostalgia, POV Sherlock Holmes, Plantonic - Freeform, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Sherlock Holmes Commits Suicide, Sherlock is a Mess, Sherlock is dead, Tags Are Hard, Tags Contain Spoilers, What Have I Done, What Was I Thinking?, What-If, character what, ghostlock, help the poor guy out, ish, watson remorse, what is life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-10-26 16:12:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17749163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_A_random/pseuds/just_A_random
Summary: Sherlock Holmes' life has been knotted, twisted, and turned with some key, certain events that has been happening in recent months. Now that he's dead, he doesn't have to deal with any of it really, but the fact he doesn't need to is what makes him bored.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I'm new to AO3, so bare with me. I've been writing for about three years now, my Lextile and Reading and Writing scores in English have gone up phenomenally, because of it. I write in British-English, despite being American, and Southern for that fact too. Anywho, this is a prologue! Enjoy this short, half-attempted thing I created.

_ Prologue _

* * *

 

 

Sherlock had to say, this was not what he intended. He was still here, but unattached to a mortal body or object. This predicament was quite something when he noticed what had happened to him. Fevered and sweating, he had took his last breath, resulting in his death. He had been in pain, inexplicable pain. He had been running in circles inside his racing mind, yet all had slowly became fuzzy and slow. He could not possibly understand; what he had done to deserve such a distasteful afterlife?

         It was kind of ironic. How you may ask? It was simple. One and a half years ago, Sherlock Holmes had killed himself, he jumped off a building and plummeted to his death. But did he really?

         No. No, he did not. It was staged, fake, a hoax, and a trick to the human eye. He stayed in hiding for the last year, and then Sherlock got himself into trouble. He dug too deep. He was caught a month before his death and people had been on his arse till he died.

         He died because of those people, and was shot, the bullet passing his rib-cage and puncturing his lung. He was left for dead and of course, lying in a deserted alley, he whispered things his mind could only remember before he fell into deep sleep, the sleep he had been awakened in as a new type of being. And what was that thing? John Watson, and his goofy smile.

         Now, unfortunately, he had no physical form. He was stuck as a translucent, paranormal being that he certainly did not believe in, but it was hard to say you did not believe in ghosts were you were one. So this was fun.


	2. Just nO

  
  


Sherlock Holmes was bored. He was impossibly bored. He was excruciatingly bored. 

         He had considered trying what other things like him do: hauntings or trying to get in contact with mortals, or just anything that involved doing  _ something _ . 

         Sherlock was a wandering ghost. He did not know why he was still here or where he needed to go to end his internal suffering in this bloody wretched place. He had no intention of communicating with others, except possibly come into a police station and slightly help them, interrogate (or scare) the people whom were guilty to admit it. He stayed in London, but when passing Baker street, he had the shred of curiosity to see how John was doing. 

         Why should he care about the living when he was nothing more than a lost soul? Because even though mortals had physical forms, they also had souls, or most do anyway. 

         Sherlock was irritatedly bored as he rounded the corner of a one street he’d passed on his way to Mycroft’s. Now that he didn’t have to deal with Mycroft or Lestrade or John, he was lonely and nostalgic. Curse his human emotions. 

         He laid against a building with a sigh, people walking past without paying him any attention. They could not see or hear him anyway, that took too much energy. He could barely lift a cup of coffee without having to stop minutes later with exhaust in his system. It was something about ghosts, that he just did not understand. Okay, not that he’d admit this aloud, but he did not understand a lot of it. 

         The sun shining on his translucent face, he gazed across the street before he started to walk to the other side. He did not look, because he could not possibly feel pain by getting hit by a car, it would only pass through him, but with the sun just right, he was visible just the slightest, making a grey truck almost slam on its breaks, but as it went through him, he made a surprised yell, making quickly getting to the other side of the street. He caused a bit of chaos on the streets, oops. 

         Anywho, where was he? Oh, yes. He was going to the bakery. Despite lacking a physical presence and the need to eat, drink, or sleep, he could still smell the faint scent of fresh pastries from the corner. 

         He could feel his lips turning into a smile as he swiftly walked, floating at moments, to the small shop. He passed through the door with no problem, although struggling to slide past people whom did not see him. He would rather avoid those weird body warmths that they give him, yet they gave a living soul a cold tense, which confused him the most undoubtedly. 

         The tall ghost of a once brave and sociopathic man stood near the window where the goods spread along in display. He stared at them, but couldn’t help the sense of disappointment that would be within him as he knew he could not taste the ever-so-good sweets. If he tried, it’d only fall through him, and it takes more energy than it should just to pick one up, so there’s was nothing he would do really—other than reminisce in the memory of sharing one with his friend, John.

         Sherlock took a moment before he looked over his shoulder, at a young couple at a table. Their light laughter filled the room as the man defended himself. 

         “I’m serious!” he said, looking down at the table and leaning onto his elbow. He shook his head and picked up his soft drink, gesturing to her. “You know what, why don’t I show you, okay? Tomorrow night. I have to watch my little sister tonight, but I promise, trust me. I. Am. Serious.” 

         The other was just laughing, gazing at him with a bright gleam in her pair of eyes. “Okay, okay. I give. You can show me, but then you have to come with me to my dad’s thing - you know which thing, right?” She giggled a bit more, almost looking as if what he was saying appeared childish. 

         Sherlock, on the other hand, was not amused by this and with a flick of his eyes almost rolling themselves in their eye sockets, he walked passed them, managing to accidentally bump into a cup near the edge of the table with his coat. The joke the man made had been more right than silly, as it would seem. 

         The post-detective ignored them both for the time-being, giving the cashier more attention. He watched one-by-one the customers ordered and paid for their refreshments. He couldn’t do anything to stop them—or could he?

         No. No, he could not. Absolutely not. He was not some type of poltergeist. He wasn’t going to stir up some bloody trouble for no reason, whether it was something to do or no. 

         Or maybe just a little bit? 

         “No, Sherlock. That’s stupid. You’d be doing more bad than good,” he fought with himself aloud. He could persuade himself not to do something. He always had. Of course, boredom was illogical and should die in a ditch with no self-preservation and sense of sanity, but no. Just  _ no _ , Sherlock Holmes. 

         Or possibly. Curse his ironic remarks, because they seem to get the best of him. 

         He huffed with a small hint of regret, although it wasn’t too big to actually have taken affect in his actions. He walked, his coat swinging behind him and catching the air yet again. He managed to pass the sweets and went more into the Kitchen. The smell of fresh baked goods filled and swirled in the air as his mind went to multiple things highlighting these foods. 

         After a moment, he closed his eyes and sighed. He rid himself of these toxic thoughts he’d never put to use. There was no case here and even if there was, he could certainly not help in any way, unless he wanted to try and haunt the perpetrator. 

         Although that took too much most indefinitely, it was something. . . . 


End file.
